


As if you were on fire from within.

by MisanthropyMuse



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bad sort of poetry because Grantaire, Drunkenness, M/M, One-Side Romance, Rants, adoration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 19:21:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisanthropyMuse/pseuds/MisanthropyMuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Maybe, and he likes to underline the uncertainty of the thing, only Paris can be compared to Enjolras, but not even always. "</p>
<p>Grantaire's drinks too much, thinks too much and definitely adores Enjolras way too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As if you were on fire from within.

Enjolras has sense of duty written all over his being.   
Grantaire drinks until the letters get blurry and he can forget about it. He drinks until the only important thing in the world is his mouth. The way his lips move forming words he can't really understand, the colour they assume under the warm light of the candles, the shimmering white of the teeth that peers in between.   
And his smile, sometimes, when someone says something smart.  
And Grantaire dreams about how sweet and soft they must be, and knowing that he can only dream about it makes him just want to drink more.  
He swallows the pain with a sip of red wine, and he can fool himself into thinking that he's fine.  
Sometimes Enjolras looks at him and he looks disappointed, sometimes he's totally indifferent, and that's as sweet as it gets.   
But other times his eyes shines from the emotion he gets while preaching about his beloved revolution, and they sometimes make Grantaire forgets his name.  
Or maybe is just the wine.  
Enjolras is so beautiful he can't really be compared to anything. He could make poets go mad by trying to hard to describe him and obviously failing. It makes Grantaire laugh, when he's drunk enough he can think about it without cringing.  
The ABC Café is always too hot, as full of overexcited people as it is, and Enjolras always sweats too much while he does his speeches. The drops that slowly slide down his cheeks are what Grantaire lives for. They make a perfect duo with the sweat on his palms whenever he thinks of it.  
His pale chest showing from his half untied shirt, and the wetness on the back of it, just perfectly pair with the wetness between Grantaire's legs when he's alone at night and there's nothing else he craves.  
Maybe, and he likes to underline the uncertainty of the thing, only Paris can be compared to Enjolras, but not even always.   
Paris can be rainy, can be dirty, cold, foggy, chaotic, smelly, or even annoying, sometimes.  
Enjolras just can't be anything but painfully perfect.  
He could say that Enjolras is as perfect as Paris in a sunny but cold winter morning, he's made of clear sky, blinding sun that peers between buildings and air so cold it's almost painful to breath.   
He's shivers down his spine and the kiss of the sunlight on his face. He's freezing wind that makes the skin burn and the eyes get tearful. He's strolling between the _bouquinistes_ along the Seine and reading in a park until it gets too cold. He's even getting drunk with some whore on his lap and throwing up in some dirty, dark alley.  
By the time he starts to see Enjolras' body parts as buildings of Paris Grantaire knows that he's really too drunk.  
-I'm tired as fuck, but I won't go until you tell me I can.- he whispers every night, suddenly crossing the room to get close to Enjolras, no matter what he's doing or what he's talking about.  
Enjolras can't see the heart Grantaire just ripped from his chest and offered him. He's just so blind sometimes.  
He sighs, instead, and turns up his nose because of the smell of really cheap wine.   
-You can go, Grantaire.- he says, often coldly, and ignores Grantaire's disappointed look.  
He turns around and makes his way to the door.  
Some lucky nights Enjolras sighs again and reaches for him, just before the door.  
-Goodnight, you fool. Take care.- he whispers, and there's really a hint of actual humanity in the stunning azure of his eyes.   
Those lucky nights, Grantaire's being makes sense.

**Author's Note:**

> I should stop writing at night.   
> Aaron Tveit and George Blagden are my Enjolras and Grantaire and I don't even regret it.  
> This is dedicated to Aaron Tveit because he's perfect.
> 
> Title from Pablo Neruda Ode to a Naked Beauty.


End file.
